Restitution
by LexLuthor13
Summary: Continuing a thread from Dreamers and Demons. Conner heads to Metropolis, seeking counsel with Superman. Before he can, however, an unexpected party reenters his life. And that's just the beginning. Featuring Robin, Superman, and the rest of the JLA!
1. Arrival

_Conner in Metropolis. Continuing a thread from 'Dreamers and Demons'. In his search for meaning, Superboy heads to Metropolis, to the man with the answers: Superman. What does the Man of Steel know about Porject Superboy, if anything?  
_

* * *

The city of Metropolis was settled by French traders in 1755, a year after the French and British started a war to establish dominance in coastal America. Located along the eastern seaboard of the United States, it's as much a part of the American subconscious as New York, Los Angeles or even Chicago.

It's a jewel, shining brightly against the night. Yeah, that's cheesy, but it's true. Ask five people what they think of this town and you'll get similar responses. "The City of Tomorrow" is the most common one. Yeah, the City of Tomorrow protected by the Man of Tomorrow.

But **built** by a completely different man. Modern Metropolis—for the past 19 years anyway, is the sole production of one man.

Lex Luthor.

In a lot of ways it was the least he could do: rebuild the city in his image, to his liking. Luthor was born of Metropolis, and it will probably be here that he dies. He was born in Suicide Slum, an impoverished borough on the northwestern edge of New Troy. Born to abusive parents whose more sadistic qualities rubbed off on ol' Egghead. Born of a city somehow lacking in what Luthor felt he needed--deserved--he set out to make Metropolis better...and deify himself along the way.

His parents died in a car crash when he was 14 years old. He traveled the world after that, gaining the capital he needed to build his empire. LexCorp International, the spearhead of Luthor's corporate empire and first sign of the man's burgeoning reach over the city.

In time, through philanthropy and…other means Luthor had revitalized this town, shifting its paradigm from the Berkeley of its day in the 1960s…to the top of the heap in the matter of a few years.

It was some combination of luck and genius that allowed Luthor an eery kind of sway over the town. He influenced elections, owned the courts, and bribed the police on a weekly basis. All to save his own hide.

Clever. Admirable, too, if it weren't so damn underhanded.

Yes, Lex Luthor owned this town. For years. Until Superman literally came out of the sky one day and inadvertently threw down the gauntlet. Superman foiled a staged attempt on Luthor's life aboard the man's own yacht, and the billionaire CEO of LexCorp spent the night in jail.

At that moment, Luthor's hatred began…and grew. How dare someone challenge **his** power? How dare someone imprison the great Lex Luthor, if even for a single night?

This was Lex's reasoning. His reason for hating Superman came from that gauntlet being thrown down. Superman was not an active enemy; he didn't go seeking conflict with Luthor—didn't blow over the LexTower or try to freeze Lex's assets, because that's not who Clark is.

Superman doesn't know or doesn't acknowledge that some people can be truly, deeply, irretrievably evil. Somewhere in that indestructible heart of his, he sees a goodness in Luthor.

Luthor...well, he's proactive. He wants to strike first and strike hard. That would almost be admirable too…if he weren't so damn underhanded about it. Yeah, Lex wants to strike first and strike hard, eliminating the competition.

Hence, me.

Through me, he had a way of achieving that lofty goal of his: destroying Superman.

So Luthor called up Cadmus, or vice versa, and sent a sample of his DNA down to their labs. Scientists mixed it up with some of Clark's…and let it grow. Into me. But they couldn't see where it was going. I broke free, tore up Cadmus labs somethin' fierce too.

And yet…here I am. A few years removed from that, and I still can't shake Luthor's legacy. It's stupid, but…it's almost like I can feel something inside of me. Growing, absorbing, waiting for the right time.

Waiting for Luthor to crawl out from his rock and make his move. Strike first and strike hard.

This is how it is. Everyday. Balancing Luthor and Superman on the tip of my finger. I'm a bridge between two worlds, with Clark and Luthor standing at opposite ends. And they're staring at me. Silent, neither one of them really wanting to clue me in on their intentions.

Tug of war sucks.

* * *

1938 Sullivan Street stands before me, a glittering tower reaching into the night sky. Light floods the streets and claws its way into the night..

Yeah…a jewel.

The building is owned by Bruce Wayne—one of the few business ventures he maintains outside of his 'turf in Gotham City. The _Daily Planet _is the only other I can think of.

Clark and Lois live in this building. I thought…with everything that's happened lately, maybe Clark could give me some advice. Guidance. Whatever. Something to help me shake this feeling of guilt—if it can be called that—over Bart's leg, and the business with Luthor's Society just hours ago.

He has a way of putting a guy at ease. Whether it's intentional or just one of his more endearing traits, well, I don't know. But hopefully, he can help me.

I'm not…quite sure how to do this. I could fly up to the balcony and knock. But that's too obvious a display of power. I don't want—or need—to attract attention right now.

So I go for the more sensible approach. Push my way through the revolving door and head for the elevators. I manage to catch one of them just before the doors slid shut. I wait for the sensor to detect an arm in the way and pull the doors back automatically, and then slink into the car.

An hunched old woman in a green raincoat and hat stands next to me. I take a place beside her, and slide my hands into my pockets. And I stare straight ahead at the LED number display. Floors click by and time seems to slow down.

The woman pulls a Kleenex from her purse, swipes it across her nose with a sniff and slides it into her jacket pocket. My eyes glance sideways for just a moment, just enough to see two little beady eyes staring out at me from behind Blue Blockers.

It's awkward. I'm almost scared that she'll recognize me as Superboy or something. But generally…most folks outside of 'Frisco and certain parts of Metropolis don't care enough to put a face to a name. Lucky for me.

"Excuse me," a tiny voice crackles. My head stutters uneasily to the side, to see the little old lady staring at me. Her pink glasses are lowered to the tip of her nose so she can, like all grandmothers, 'get a good look at me'. It's a little creepy.

"Yes?" I answer.

"Where did you get that shirt?" She's referring to my shirt. Jeez. The black tee with the red Superman shield on it. "I've been looking for one for ages with no success."

"Oh," I say disjointedly. "This, uh, came from Schonenfeld's down on Swan Street. They're pretty affordable too. It's just a matter of knowin' where to look, I guess." And I flash a quick smile.

"Schonenfeld's you say?" she quivers.

"Yep. They should be able to fix you up."

The elevator dings and the doors slide open to reveal a long hallway bathed in beige.

"This is my floor. Good luck." I toss up a casual wave and start down the hall. If I'm right, Lois and Clark are the…third one on the right. Or...left? Crap.

I narrow my vision and the x-ray kicks in. I do a quick panorama from left to right...and find her in a few seconds. Lois, slouched lazily in a recliner, a hardback tented over her stomach. From the looks of it, she's half asleep. Should I come back?

I don't even let myself think about it. I'm already knocking on the door. I half expect Lois to open the door, say 'oh its you' and shut the door in my face. It could happen.

But it doesn't.

Lois slides the door open slowly, peeking her head around to see who's ringing at 9:30 at night. A corner of her mouth rises in a half-smile.

"Conner. This is unexpected."

"Sorry about the hour," I say, playing the humble angle. "You're probably busy."

"No, no," she says waving a hand. "Come on in. Can I get you anything?"

"Water would be nice," I say quietly as Lois opens the door and lets me in. She closes the door behind me and walks towards the kitchen.

In front of me, I see the expanse of her apartment—her and Clark's apartment. Ahead of me a balcony sits dark and quiet behind fancy-looking French Doors. A flat-screen television is mounted to a wall, situated between two fully stocked bookcases that reach from ceiling to floor. The leather couch is flanked by two narrow end-tables, one of them displaying Lois and Clark's wedding picture, the other displaying a picture of Clark receiving his Pulitzer.

Memories. It's hokey all right. But it's…comforting. Something I want to work for.

"Make yourself at home," Lois' voice echoes from the kitchen.

I throw myself down in the center of the couch and reach for the weathered copy of NewsTime sitting on the coffee table in front of me. I flip through it, going for the cartoons. But they're political cartoons. Stuff that rolls right over my head. Crap.

I look up and see Lois walking in with a glass of water in one hand and a goblet of something red in the other. She hands the water to me and takes her place in the recliner, pulling the lever and shifting the seatback upright.

"So," she says calmly. "What, uh, what brings you here?"

"I was kinda looking for Clark. Is he—?"

"—on patrol. He'll back soon. Care to wait?"

"Sure," I say after a pause. "You don't mind do you?"

"Nope," she says swiftly. "Not if you don't mind helping a lady with her crosswords."

* * *

_**Continued... **_


	2. In on it

"Lois."

The voice floods the living room, and from behind me a shadow casts itself across the floor. It doesn't matter how many times you meet him—or even that you're made of part of him, that you associate with him fairly regularly, that you know the secret identity—it's always an **experience**. The rush of a roller-coaster…without the wind in your face.

Superman.

He's not just a man. He's something more. A **myth**…Apollo and Hermes in one brightly-colored box. Thanks to Cass, I know who Apollo and Hermes are now. So I'm learning. It's a great feeling. To be expanding, evolving. To become something more than, well let's be honest, stunning good looks. Wink.

Lois dog-ears the page of her crossword, closes the book and tosses it on the sofa next to me. She leans back in her chair and folds her hands over her stomach. I turn my head to see Clark—still in his Super-gear.

"Busy night?" Lois says in Clark's general direction.

Clark smiles and sits beside me on the couch, lifting one leg and crossing it over the other and resting an arm on the armrest beside him. He looks relaxed. It's a far cry from the hovering Superman who can burn your head off with a wink.

"Not too bad," Clark says. "Stopped some car thefts down around the docks. And a real nasty protest over in the Slum."

"It happens," Lois says with a smile. "As long as nobody got hurt, right, Clark?"

"I guess," Clark dismisses. Yeah…boatloads of humility. "So uh, what brings you to our neck of the woods, Conner?"

"Well, I was kinda hoping we could talk. You and me."

"Alright."

"Can we, uh, go for a flight?"

Clark lifts out of the couch, floating a few feet off the floor. "Lois," he says guud-humoredly.

"Smallville," she says without missing a beat.

"How 'bout some coffee when we get back?"

"You got it."

Superman leads me out of 1938 Sullivan through the French Doors and into the skies above the Big Apricot. Who even came up with that name? New York's board of tourism would be appalled.

At this altitude, Clark and I can talk without fear of being overheard. Not that it matters, I guess. Still…

"Are you up for it?" Clark asks. No…not Clark. Right now, he's Superman. For the purposes of this discussion…it's **Superman**.

"Up for what?"

"A circle around the globe."

"Ohhh," I say with an apprehensive grin. A light bulb clicks. "I see what you're up to. You wanna see if you can still **beat** me."

"Hey," Superman says lightly. "Wally usually falls for it."

"You're on."

The land, the sea, the mountains. They all blur into one endless stretch of brown and gray beneath us. It's surprisingly easy to think this way. Nothing to distract you, nothing to look for or shift focus.

"So what did you need, Conner?"

"It's Luthor," I say without hesitation.

Superman glances over at me and his eyes drift away a few seconds. I can almost hear a sigh. Impatience or agitation. Hard to tell which.

"What is it?" I ask.

"So...he told you, did he?"

"Wait," I say. I drop my speed to a halt in an instant. Superman stops with me. "What?"

Superman folds his arms over his chest and bows his head. "I wanted to tell you. I **should** have."

"You **knew**," I say. I'm caught somewhere between offense and disappointment. "Cadmus, Luthor's DNA…all of it."

"t's unfortunate that Lex beat me to the punch. But since we seem to be on the same page—"

"How **long** have you known?" I say brusquely. "Were you in on this with him?"

"Take it easy," Superman says calmly.

"Take it easy? What am I to you, some **joke**? You think you can just walk all over me?"

"Of course n--"

"Yeah, yeah. Supergirl shows up, you roll out the welcome mat for her. And you kept me out of the loop for **months**, Clark."

"Calm down. This isn't about Kara. It's about **you**. And right now I'm telling you. I should have told you before now. But I wasn't sure you were ready. I was protecting your interests."

"Fine," I say dismissively. "Just…just tell me what he wants with me."

"Come on," Superman says, picking up speed. I follow suit and before I know it we're back at that trans-light speed. Staring at the blur of grey beneath us.

"I did know," Superman says. "And I was keeping it from you. But for good reasons. You were a relative newcomer. You had little exposure to our world. If the knowledge of your lineage got out in the open…I wasn't sure what was going to happen. I wasn't going to be held responsible for any harm done to you."

"And you never thought I could protect myself?" I ask.

"No," Superman answers swiftly. "I **knew** you could. But when Lex got elected, my fears grew. He had that knowledge of your lineage—and more—at his fingertips, Conner. Literally. I didn't want to run the chance of him launching some government crusade against metas over a wounded ego."

"Your fears were unfounded," I say bluntly. "I could have handled it."

"I know that now," Superman says quietly. "But I misjudged you. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," I say. "Just tell me what he wants. So I can stop him."

"When you saw him, did he say anything to you?"

"He wanted me to join this Society of his. A bunch of super-villains. Said they were doing it as protection against the League…whatever **that** means."

Superman glances at me briefly. "It doesn't mean anything," he says swiftly. "What else did he say?"

"Not much. Robin showed up with Batman soon after that and they led us out of Luthor's bunker."

"Anything else?"

"One question. When I busted out of Cadmus and found my way to the city, I found some TV footage of Luthor. But he wasn't bald. This Luthor had a beard and long red hair."

"That was Lex Luthor the second. The elder Lex's son."

"So…it was **his** DNA that cloned me?"

"Well," Superman says with a pause. "Yes. By the time of my death and your cloning, Lex Luthor the first had died of a kryptonite-related cancer. It started in his hand and eventually consumed his whole body. A few months after his death, his son showed up—from Australia."

"Wow," I say. "That's…kinda crazy."

"It gets crazier. Luthor the younger wasn't really **anyone's** son. He was a **clone**—a more youthful body housing the brain of Lex the first."

"Then it wasn't really Lex's DNA?" I ask, a speck of hope coming into my head.

"Oh it was," Superman says. "Even clones have similar genes. The clone Luthor carried the precise genetic signature of the older Luthor, with slight modifications, the largest one being the hair thing."

"So he was right. There's some Luthor inside me after all…"

"Yes," Superman says. "But you don't have to **like** it. You don't have to let it control you."

* * *

"Noah?" 

"Lex?"

"Is the connection established?"

"It will be. Give me a few minutes."

"That's time we don't have, Kuttler."

"Don't last-name me, Lex. You know better than anyone that genius doesn't work to some timetable."

"That's clever."

"Once the connection's established, do you wish to take action?"

"Not yet. Wait for confirmation from Switzerland."

"Then what?"

"Then, Noah…we meet those 'other goals' we talked about."

* * *

_**Continued...

* * *

**and special notice to the reader who figures out what's so important in Switzerland;).  
_


	3. Awareness

This is a place of solitude. A place where I can do my work. The work I should be doing. All because of one night.

Years ago.

How do I do it? How do I face tragedy and overcome. People ask me this…and I answer. When a fox gets in the henhouse, you have to kill it unless you want to lose your stock. You have to insure yourself against the tragedy.

There are forces in the world that wish you ill. And they're aggressively pursuing that dream. They want to destroy you. They want you to face the tragedy they have. Or just to face tragedy. Because of your name; because of who you are.

Who you were.

I have wealth. Training. The means to accomplish my goals, and avenge my mother and father. And it's still not enough. It never will be.

Despite everything I have, despite all my training…it's still not enough. One of these days, I'm going to die. My body will fail me. My bones will crush from years of strain, and I'll be relegated to the darkness of my home—like some invalid.

My goals will go unfinished.

I didn't have the power to save my mother and father as a boy. I can't save them now—it's been too long. But I can fight for them.

I **won't** stop fighting. I won't relent, and I won't hesitate.

Hesitation kills. Especially when you're covering your tracks. Especially then, you've got to do a foolproof job. Something no one can draw back to you except by familiarity. It couldn't have been anyone else but you, naturally, so they bring you downtown in handcuffs and you spend your days in some prison cell.

You get caught when you leave a loophole…ten minutes of unaccounted time…

Someone figures you out, because you were too stupid to cover your tracks. Your mistake is an invitation to exposure. And once you're out, there's no going back.

Your mistake is on display for the world. They can see it, feel it. It's pervasive. Frightening, even, though not necessarily. But it doesn't have to be frightening.

Awareness is the first step to restitution. Once you're aware of a problem, you can start to fix things.

Life seems easier when I'm fixing things.

"Bruce?"

Dick Grayson—Nightwing. Hanging upside-down from the stalactites in the cave above us.

"What?"

"I've been talking to you for twenty minutes."

"I'm listening."

"No you're not," he presses. "You're off in your little dream world."

I turn to him. "So?"

"Now I **am** scared," he says with a smirk. "Mister Reality here has daydreams."

"Not daydreams," I say distantly, turning back to the computer. Press a button on the keyboard, and the screen flickers to life. "This is very much reality."

Dick lets go of the de-cel cables and flips himself to the ground, landing in a crouch. He rights himself, and takes a place at my side. He's lost in the glow of the computer. The main screen displays the technical readouts of the Brother Mark One satellite.

"So that's it," he says.

"Yes."

A pause. "I don't like this. Spying on them."

"I'm not asking for your approval."

"I know, but that's never stopped me from voicing my opinions, has it? This seems…reckless, Bruce. Even for you."

"You make it sounds like this is an addiction."

"I know it isn't, though. Your only addiction is work."

"Fair enough," I say. "The League took my mind, Dick, and I was powerless to stop them. I won't be powerless anymore."

"So you're compensating for something, then? Whatever happened to forgive and forget?"

I turn to Dick and stare at him for a moment. He's perched on the edge of the computer terminal next to the main array.

"Did you forgive Tarantula for what she did to you?"

Silence.

"This is different," he says tightly. "You're invading their lives. Spying on them from orbit! For one thing, why doesn't NASA know about your satellite? Wouldn't they…see it? Where do you get the money for that kind of operation?"

"A line-item snuck into Wayne Enterprises quarterly report."

"That's clever. But what if Lucius finds out? What are you going to tell him?

"I don't **owe** an explanation to Lucius."

"But you owe **me **one," Dick says coolly. "Tell me Bruce, why are you doing this? Your memories are back. Shouldn't that be enough?"

"It's not about stolen memories," I say, turning to Dick. "This was bigger than me. It was the League using their powers for the wrong reasons. They were selfish…and they failed to see the consequences."

"So you're teaching them a lesson."

I give a silent nod.

"It's a hell of a lesson, Bruce. As long as you don't vaporize them from orbit, though—"

"I don't intend to use the Brother Mark as a first strike. It wouldn't accomplish anything, and I'm in no position to start a war with the League. But I've been locked out of the system. I no longer have control over the satellite."

"So who does?"

* * *

"Max." 

"How did you get this number?"

"Oh, I have my ways. The world's too small for someone like Maxwell Lord to disappear."

"You could at least signify me by rank."

"What are you, twelve? This is triple-encrypted channel," I deride. "I think your secret's safe."

"Fine. What do you people want now?"

"Attack Plan Delta. Project Superboy is ready to go online." There's a tinge of pride in my voice. It's satisfying—therapeutic—to be in a position where my talents are valued; a position where I can serve as emissary to gods. Satisfying to the point that I'm doing it pro bono.

"Uh-huh, so what do you want from me?"

"Just your permission to use the Brother Mark One for a special operation," I say, yawning and stretching my arms back in a wide arc. "Of course, I'd be remiss if I didn't give you a chance to think it over."

"No," Lord says.

"You **owe** us. We've done a lot for you—and Checkmate—in the past year and a half. And we're calling in our marker."

Silence. Static that can only be a sigh crackles across the line.

"Fine," Lord says quickly. "But I don't want that satellite damaged."

"Don't worry," I say in a reassuring effete. "When this is all over, you'll still be a King."

"Good," he replies, and disconnects.

Moron.

* * *

_**Continued... **_

_**

* * *

**and a hat tip to Proponent of EVO for his Checkmate guess.**  
**_


	4. The Swing of Things

_Featuring Superman, the Calculator, Luthor, and horizontal breaks galore!_

* * *

"No one would have believed…that this world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greater than man's and yet as mortal as his own; that as men busied themselves about their various concerns they were scrutinized and studied, perhaps almost as narrowly as a man with a microscope might scrutinize the transient creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water. With infinite complacency, men went to and fro over this globe about their affairs, serene in their assurance of their empire over matter…yet across the gulf...intellects vast and cool and unsympathetic regarded this earth with envious eyes, and slowly and surely drew their plans against us." 

from _The War of The Worlds_, by H.G. Wells

* * *

The call bounces through four satellites, coded through four programming languages to slip under the radar of would-be hackers. Because those nerds are always eager to listen in on a signal for their own gain. 

The microprocessors in Noah Kuttler's earpiece communicator decipher the signal upon immediate receipt. Within a few seconds of static crackle, a voice on the other end becomes coherent.

"Are we ready, Noah?"

"Yes, sir. You're sure the microprocessor will work?"

"Oh yes. Quite sure. What about satellite recon?"

"He's in the air over Brazil. Talking to **Superman**."

A snicker comes across the line, and Kuttler's brow furls in momentary confusion. "Sir?" he asks.

"Let's the give the Man of Steel a distraction."

* * *

"Do you understand, Conner?" 

The vast forests of the Amazon stretch in all directions beneath Superman and I. At this altitude, the night air bites at my face. It's…unsettling.

"Yeah," I say with apprehension. "I think I do."

"Good," Superman says after a pause. He cocks his head to the side, and focuses his attention on the horizon.

"Superman?" I say, perplexed. "What is it?"

"An explosion on an oil refinery in the Gulf. North of here." He turns back to me with a half-grin. "Care to come with?"

"Nah," I say humbly. "I'd get in the way."

Superman turns back to me, and his face drops into seriousness for a minute. "Don't ever think that, Conner. You'll never be a distraction to me."

"I understand."

Superman regards me for a moment, and lifts higher in the sky.

"Take care of yourself, Conner. Go back to my place. Lois can get you anything you need."

Before I have a chance to react, Superman's a blur of red against the sky, rushing off to save the day…like he always does.

"Yeah," I say, turning away. "I know…"

* * *

"Lex?" 

"Is Superman away?"

"He's just passed the Yucatan. Well out of range."

"Patch me through, then."

* * *

I stay airborne for a while after Superman leaves, just hovering motionless in the air. My arms feel heavy hanging at my side. I stare down at the forest beneath me. It's the dark of night, but the wood is alive with the sounds of life…death. Animals hunting their prey, animals becoming prey. Some settling down to rest, others just waking up. The balance of nature…before my eyes. 

A shriek reaches my ears from somewhere down the river as what can only be a bird falls prey to a larger predator. Some crocodile will sleep well tonight. Well, **someone** deserves to.

And then it comes. A high-pitched piercing drone—a nail driving itself into my skull. I pound my temple, trying pointlessly to reduce the pain. And then I figure it out. Hypersonics. But…who would have the ability to do that?

The signal lessens in intensity and a voice crackles in my head. Like its coming over headphones, though I'm not wearing any.

"I've found you," the voice says mechanically, its source masked by the interference. "I'm so glad I did. I was afraid I might have lost you forever."

"Who is this?" I ask

"Just a little birdie…with your best interests at heart."

How am I hearing this? Who is this?

"I gave you a choice once," the voice says, "but I realize the error of my ways now. It's a simple rule of business…that if you want something, you have to take it for yourself."

"What do you want!"

"I want **you**, Conner."

Lex…its Lex.

"My son, you will be the greatest of my line. Aut vincere aut mori!"

* * *

It's the only good thing about my leg being screwed up. Because of Conner's stupidity I've spent the last day and a half stuck in this hospital bed in Titans Tower. It's tedious. I can't do anything. Vic says the tendons aren't healing straight—and to reset them would mean another few days decommissioned. Whoopee. 

In a lot of ways, I shouldn't even be in this bed. I'm the friggin' Kid Flash. I should be out there doing something. Being a **productive **member of the team.

But the physical damage, I can overlook. Because of it, I get sympathy from Wonder Girl—Cassie Sandsmark. And that's not a bad deal...not at all.

That's part of her allure. All the Titans like her; she's…sunny. Even Tim digs her.

It's the way she looks at you. Those eyes go right through you. It'd be scary, if there wasn't something appealing about it. Yeah, she looks through you…like she knows **all** about you and doesn't judge. Again…appealing.

"How's your food?" she asks, leaning over the bed to remove the tray from over my lap.

"Same old junk," I say with a smile. She flashes me a smile of her own and carries the tray to a table by the window. "Though…the Jell-o was particularly good."

"Funny," Cass says, turning back to me. "Most people would disagree."

"Well, since when am I most people?"

"True enough. Do you need anything else?"

"Sure," I say lightly. "If you're offering, I'll take a massage."

She snickers in return. "Let's put a pin in that theory."

Damn. "Alright," I say coolly, regaining composure. "Maybe next time."

"I'll try to clear my schedule," she says slyly, and strides out of the room. Funny gal.

* * *

The dark green basin of the Amazon forests slides into a blur as I rocket away from Brazil. Luthor's mechanized voice rings in my head. I know what I'm doing—I can **see** it. 

But I can't control it. Why…?

"We will catch them off guard," Lex says. "Go to Titans Tower. **Destroy** them."

* * *

_**Continued... **_


	5. Concern

Things heat up. A longer chapter than expected, but don't let that hold you back, Constant Reader. Enjoy.

* * *

I leave Bruce to his work—he certainly has a lot of it—and head upstairs to the Manor. The Kitchen sits off of the dining room. I slide my hands into my pockets and head for it. I push my way through the doors, and see Tim sitting at a table over what looks like tea. Alfred stands in front of the stove across the room. 

"Wow," I say. "I would've never thought you were a tea-drinker, Tim."

"Well," he says, eyeballing the china suspiciously, "it must be Alfred's silver tongue."

Alfred turns from the stove, holding a small cup and saucer in his hand, and sits at the table. "One of the more endearing traits I picked up on Her Majesty's Secret Service."

Tim cracks a smile. "Sometimes, you know, that British accent still gets me."

I pick a seat across from Tim and clasp my hands together. "It's an acquired taste," I say.

"So what are you doin' here anyway? I mean...what about B-town?" Tim pries. He's too modest for his own good. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be down in B-town bustin' heads?"

"Would if I could," I say swiftly. "I needed some time away, y'know?"

"Yeah."

"So how's he doing?" Tim asks.

"Bruce? Fine. Still pouring himself into his work," I say with a hint of disappointment. "Won't even come up for **dinner**."

"Master Bruce is doing what he believes he must," Alfred interjects. He stirs sugar into his tea, takes a sip and looks at Tim and I. "It is…admirable, if misguided."

"What?" I say slowly, incredulously. "Come on, Alfred, don't you think he's acting a little…strange lately?"

"No," he replies sternly. "I have known him for many years. I have disagreed with him, counseled him in times of need, and offered my assistance when I could. But I understand why he has done this. What he is working for. And even if you do not agree with it, you must recognize what he is trying to do."

"It's not disrespect, Alfred, it's…"

"What?" Tim asks.

"I'm worried about retaliation. How long before that satellite goes **unnoticed**? And once someone finds out it's up there staring at us, what then?"

"You're worrying too much," Tim says calmly, polishing off the tea.

"You're generalizing," Tim says. "You're not really worried about what happens to Bruce or how he's gonna get out of this one. Your concern is Bruce's welfare—'is this Brother Mark in his best interest'—when it probably shouldn't be."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying you need to stop worrying about Bruce. He's a grown man, right Alfred?"

Alfred nods curtly, in the middle of finishing his tea.

"He can take care of himself, Dick."

"Yes," Alfred chimes in. "And he would expect the rest of us to be able to reflect that quality."

* * *

Cass holds her promise. Yay for me.

Lunch starts out well enough, with Cass's apparently untested chef skills put to a successful test. Yeah, its macaroni and cheese, but it's…enjoyable just the same. The smell of American cheese and carbolicious noodles—and Cass's fingers kneading baby oil into my shoulders.

It's bliss, in its way.

"You know," I say in a whisper. "We should really do this more often."

"What about too much of a good thing," she says, smirking.

"Maybe..." I turn my head to the side so she can see a playful grin. "I can find ways to **not **enjoy this."

And she presses a knuckle into my lumbar. I think i may have pressed one of her buttons. I tighten up instinctively as she presses a nerve. Cass leans in to my ear and whispers.

"Control yourself, killer."

Hotshot…that's a new one. Cass removes herself from straddling my back and helps me to my feet.

"How's your knee?" she asks.

"Better," I say. I do a quick jump from foot to foot for her to prove the point. "Getting there anyway."

I turn back to my bed, grab a white tee and pull it on…and I see a white flash at the horizon—far out in the ocean.

"What is that?" Cass sees it too.

"I dunno," I say. "We better tell the others."

Cass taps into her communicator a second later, paging Raven in the Monitor Womb.

"Raven, are you picking up anything?"

Silence. I can't make out whatever it is Raven's saying. Cass gives a short sigh and taps her ear again, disconnecting the line.

"Raven says it's probably nothing," Cass says, trying to reassure me—and herself. "Flock of birds."

I turn back to the window, and the white flash has become a black streak…tooling under the bridge, making a straight line for the Tower.

"It's moving too fast to be a flock of seagulls," I say shakily. "Come on."

* * *

The black streak Kid Flash speaks of is Superboy. Under the mysterious sway of Lex Luthor.

In the matter of an eye-blink, Superboy makes a high angle, accelerating into the sky and then diving steeply toward the base of Titans Tower. The Teen of Steel slams into the base of the Tower at full force.

Superboy goes straight for the power core—the reactor beneath the surface that powers the tower. Propane tanks meant as reserves explode on impact from Superboy's heat vision and send a fireball billowing out of the far side of the building. Superboy lifts off the ground. His eyes burn excesses of eat vision and he accelerates to a sub-light spin, vaporizing the walls and structural support in the subbasement around him.

With weakened support and no electricity running through Titans Tower, the building shudders and the power blacks out. Structural integrity is compromised. Steel and iron girders anchored in the bedrock below the Tower bend and weaken from Superboy's forced inferno. The tower groans as if in inanimate pain and the metal supports warp and curve inward.

In the Monitor Womb, Raven is effectively blind. Without power, she cannot see what is going on outside. She tries pointlessly to bring the systems back online. And a pounding noise makes itself known. It's coming from the door behind her. With less than three hits, Cyborg and Beast Boy have broken through the blast door.

"Come on," Beast Boy says urgently to Raven. "There's nothing more we can do here."

Raven gives a disappointed look at the computer console and turns to follow Cyborg and Beast Boy. Together, the triad pushes their way outside of the Tower and sees the full extent of the damage.

A plume of smoke climbs into the sky from the eastern side of the tower base. Raven lifts into the air and sees the flames on the eastern façade are climbing—fast. She turns back to Cyborg and Beast Boy on the ground.

"This was no accident," she says. "The exit here is too precise—too clean to have been caused by a reactor leak."

"So what do we do?" Beast Boy asks.

"We split up. Cyborg, you stay here. Gar and I will look for Bart and Ca—"

Raven falls to the ground, landing in a lazy sprawl, unconscious--courtesy of Superboy's right hook to her occipital. Before Beast Boy can react, Superboy fires a beam of heat vision into his chest. Beast Boy stumbles backwards, and Superboy hits him again in the forehead, this time rendering him unconscious.

Superboy lowers himself to the ground slowly and stares coldly into Cyborg's eyes.

"Conner!" Cyborg yells. "You're not yourself."

In an instant, Superboy launches himself at Cyborg—but Stone doesn't go down easy. Superboy holds the high ground. With every hit, the Teen of Steel forces Cyborg back. Because it doesn't matter how many hits Cyborg lands or even how hard he hits—Superboy is, for the moment, unstoppable. Controlled by a force greater than singular willpower.

Behind the fight, smoke rises higher into the sky, and the tower's innards are consumed by inexorable fire.

* * *

Up in the medical bay, Wonder Girl and the Kid Flash scramble to get out before it's too late. The duo turns into a main hallway.

"What now?" Kid Flash asks.

"We go up," Wonder Girl says. She lifts into the air and punches a hole in the roof with a grunt. Smoke fills the hallway momentarily, but Bart quickly disperses it with hyper-revolution of his arms. Kid Flash slings an arm around Wonder Girl's shoulder, and together they fly through their hasty exit.

* * *

Outside, Cyborg's resistance is wearing down. The fight has degenerated into an outright fist-fight, with Superboy winning—landing hit after hit on Cyborg. With a swift movement, Superboy lands a solid punch in Cyborg's chest. He pushes him arm through the protective shielding, into Cyborg's chest armor and rips off the outer protective shell, exposing Cyborg's sensitive circuitry.

Behind the fight, Titans Tower lists sideways a few degrees and collapses in on itself. The force of impact sends smoke into the air and blankets the island in a gray haze. Above Superboy, the horizontal T-section—the upper levels of the tower, rush to meet the ground. Before Superboy can land another hit on Cyborg, the upper levels come crashing down on the two of them. Smoke and dust linger around the island. Fires grow and sustain themselves in the collapsed remains of the Tower.

Superboy is trapped under a mangled girder, but throws it off with minimal effort. He lifts into the air and with his x-ray vision locates Cyborg and starts frantically clearing away damage above Victor Stone. When the wreckage is cleared, Cyborg's body—badly beaten and bloody, his robotic components sparking and crackling from the force of the collapse—defeated, useless.

"Suh….Superboy," Cyborg manages with a weak cough. "Help…me…"

Superboy stares coldly down at Cyborg. Slowly, he lifts a leg and lets gravity provide some resistance. And then…he slams his boot heel into the robotic half of Cyborg's face. The robotic components buckle and spark under the pressure and Cyborg's already weak movement ceases.

Wonder Girl and Kid Flash work their way through the wreckage of the Tower, finally seeing Superboy standing before the body of Cyborg.

"Conner?" Wonder Girl shouts at Superboy. The Teen of Steel looks up from Cyborg and his eyes ignite a burning red again.

The Kid Flash still has an arm slung around Cassie's shoulder still, and Superboy picks him off with a short, powerful blast of heat vision to the chest. Bart falls to the ground beside Cassie. She looks down at him, horrified, and looks back at Superboy just in time to raise her gauntlets and deflect another blast of heat vision. Amid the intense heat and pressure exerted on her, Wonder Girl holds her ground—if briefly.

"You can't win, Conner," she asserts. "My powers are magic. I **can **beat you."

Superboy relents. He lowers to the ground and the heat vision kicks off. For the moment it seems he's calmed himself though his eyes still flame red.

"Conner," Wonder Girl asks slowly, not wishing to excite him. "What's gotten into you?"

Superboy doesn't answer. He launches towards Wonder Girl and starts landing hit after hit. She deflects some, and gets hit—badly—by others. Superboy launches a roundhouse kick at Wonder Girl…and connects. The force of his boot slamming into her mandible sends blood spewing from her mouth. She stumbles back, but Superboy grabs her forearm and pulls her close. He grabs her arm at the elbow and the wrist and breaks her arm in two places. Superboy throws her to the ground carelessly and taps his earpiece communicator. Lex Luthor's mechanized voice comes over the line.

"Excellent work," he says. "Now that the Titans are incapacitated, head for the Brother Mark One in space. You'll receive further instruction there."

* * *

Deep within the darkness of the cave, Batman sits reclined in his chair, looking over files on the Batcomputer—Victor Fries, in particular. He hasn't been seen in a month. Completely dropped off the radar. Last known reports point him toward the Bowery--though it's unlikely he'd stay static for a full month. Staying hidden isn't easy--or cheap.

The screen changes from the profile of Fries to a red mono-color. It's a coded transmission from the Watchtower. Batman presses a button on the keyboard in front of him. Chances being what they are, it's the Martian Manhunter. As usual.

"What is it, J'onn?"

"Is Robin with you?" There's a tinge of…suspicion in the Martian's voice. Fear, almost.

"He teleported in a few hours ago, yes," Batman replies. After a pause, he follows up. "Why do you ask?"

"There's been an incident in San Francisco," J'onn says with a heavy voice. "The Tower is destroyed. None of the Titans are answering calls."

"None of them?"

"All but Speedy. She was—and remains—in Star City."

"Put out a priority alert. Call Wally and Diana. Where is Superboy?"

"We don't know. Last known location was in the air over Brazil…talking to Superman."

"And Clark? Does he know about this yet?"

"He will."

Batman reclines in his chair and his mind begins to process the information. All the Titans incapacitated but Speedy and Superboy. The Tower destroyed. But who could have done it, and why? Harder questions to answer. Dearden and Superboy are the only ones unaffected, and she was in Star City.

The clone.

"Batman?"

"Standby," Batman says shortly, and switches lines. He reaches to the console to his left and presses a red call button. "Alfred?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Is Tim still here?"

"Playing his video games with Master Richard, sir; shall I fetch him for you?"

"Yes. Tell him its important."

* * *

_**Continued... **_


	6. Flashpoint

In the innermost control room of my vast underground bunker—stretching the length of the main runway at Archie Goodwin Airport, a glowing a green image hovers in the air before me. Maxwell Lord, in three dimensions, talking to me. Lex Luthor. I get a certain shudder of electricity just saying it--after all its a simple name. But certainly one with a long resume behind it; many things to be proud of.

An election to the highest office in the land. Control over the largest multinational corporation this side of Microsoft. A hand in the creation of my very own progeny—a readily viable heir to be proud of. A tool I can use…for a **secure** society.

And the manipulation of Maxwell Lord's revamped Checkmate. It was a simple act. Once I had more elbow room after my impromptu impeachment…I was able to completely retreat underground. I could achieve more important goals out of sight and seemingly out of mind of the hero racket. And it worked.

Lord took his place in Checkmate after Task Force X—at the behest of myself and Secretary Waller—disposed of the previous Black King.

From then on, Lord knew he **owed **me. And I never let him forget it. Months after my purported disappearance, I sent Lord to Washington to speak with President Ross. And shortly after that, Ross came to me—distraught, broken spiritually—intent on saving his marriage. I told him everything about Superman…and he went along with it, to his benefit. And mine.

That was the beginning of the end. The road to ruin, as it were.

"I saw the damage to the Tower," Lord says with a hint of concern. His words bring me back to the present. "What happened?

"**Superboy** happened."

"Oh," Lord says quietly. "So Noah wasn't kidding."

"No," I respond. "He wasn't. Superboy is online now. An unstoppable force."

"You sound awfully confident, Lex," Lord says, testing the waters.

"It's what I do, Max, now what did you want?"

"To know where your little science project is headed."

"To the Watchtower," I say idly.

"That's insane. He can't storm the gate himself!"

Lord eyeballs me curiously. "You never worry about anything, do you Lex?"

"Oh, I have plenty of worries, Max." I say. I inspect my fingernails intently, grimacing at a hangnail. "I just keep them **hidden**."

"Better up the sleeve than on it, eh?"

I give Lord a curt smile. "We'll contact you when further information becomes available."

"Good," Max says expectantly and hangs up. Good, he says. Like he's **waiting **for us to keep him apprised. That over-inflated sense of entitlement. Moron.

Well…I won't have to put up with it much longer. I pull a remote from my jacket, press the red button at its center, and the LED projector in the floor emits a wide swath of green light, coalescing into an image of Black Adam. He's horizontal—airborne. Now that's good news.

"Teth-Adam," I say, proper-naming him. "Status report."

"We are over Spain," Black Adam replies in a resounding tenor. "We will reach the castle in a matter of minutes."

"Good," I reply. "And I wouldn't worry about making a discreet entrance. The three of you have enough firepower to overcome whatever Max throws at you. Report back when you've found the control room."

Black Adam nods once, promptly, and the image fades away.

Things are now in motion which cannot be undone. It's a vindicating feeling…a fascinating paradigm.

* * *

The thin mechanical voice of the Brother Mark computer system speaks to Maxwell Lord in a calming monotone. "Incoming object. Entering the upper atmosphere." 

"Speed?" Lord asks.

"Unknown."

"Tracking?"

"Easterly."

"It's Superboy," Lord says quietly, coming to a realization.

"Do you wish to take action," the system asks.

"No," Lord replies after a pause. "It's headed for the Watchtower. Get me a visual on the Moon. All wavelengths. I want to see this from the best angles."

* * *

In his control room, Luthor stares intently at the green-colored viewscreen hovering before him. A small red dot traverses a grid system toward a larger red circle on the far side. Luthor presses another button on the remote in his hand, and tunes in to Superboy. 

"That's close enough."

* * *

In the black vastness of space, Superboy's acceleration drops to a halt and he hovers above the blue sphere of Earth. His eyes lock on the Brother Mark satellite in the distance. 

"I've had one of my trademark changes of heart, my son," Luthor says grimly. "**Destroy** the satellite."

Superboy's placid blue eyes light up instantly, burning a fiery red—the excess radiation carried away or dissipated in the emptiness of space.

* * *

In his control room, Max Lord watches the computer screen focus in on Superboy at the visual wavelength spectrum. 

"What are you doing? I said the Moon!"

"Danger, Maxwell Lord."

"What?"

* * *

Luthor watches a single beam of red shoot from Superboy's eyes, heading straight for the Brother Mark One. 

Luthor sees a beam of red strobe across space, pierce the satellite. The Brother Mark shatters and blows apart, goes nova and becomes a small star that burns brilliant for a moment before fading, leaving millions of burning pieces behind—suspended in weightless space. It's a spectacular sight…for its violence.

Some larger fragments are drawn towards Earth—attracted by tidal forces of gravitation. Still more linger in space like bored patrons.

* * *

In his control room, Max Lord watches red beams of light shoot from Superboy's eyes and pierce the satellite…and the picture goes blank. Static snow fills the screen. 

"What the hell!" Lord says in an outraged bellow. He pounds both fists on the console in pointless anger and looks back at the screen. Still static.

"Report?"

Silence.

"Report, dammit!"

Silence.

Lord collapses into the chair behind him and wipes a gloved hand across his face.

"Jesus," he says to himself. "Gone. Just like that."

And Max Lord starts to worry—for the first time in a long time. The jig is up, Lord thinks to himself. The League, the Society…**Batman**. They're going to find him now. Especially Batman. The Brother Mark was Batman's to begin with; Lord just pirated it in a stroke of luck and genius. The Dark Knight won't be pleased—he never is, anyway, but this…this is just fuel to the fire.

And then it dawns on Maxwell Lord.

"Son of a bitch," he says in quiet anger. "They set me up."

"Yes," a calm tenor answers from somewhere behind Lord. Lord rockets around in his chair and sees the source of the voice. "But you will not live to prove it."

Black Adam, hovering in the air, his arms folded over the yellow lightning bolt symbol on his chest. Literally staring down his nose at Lord. But Adam isn't alone.

Flanking the ruler of Khandaq on either side…Zoom and Deathstroke.

And for a moment, the thought of another Black King being deposed enters Max Lord's head.

* * *

_**Continued... **_


	7. Something Wicked

Bruce calls me down to the Cave, thus cutting short my winning edge over Dick in "Medal of Honor." So much for a record. But I tell myself whatever Bruce has for me, it's important.

When has it ever **not **been?

I descend the steps to find Bruce steeped in darkness, sitting in his chair, lost in the glaze of the computer screen. And then the sound of his voice echo across to me. He's talking to someone.

"Right," he says. He's talking to someone via his earpiece communicator; probably one of teh Leaguers. J'onn. Superman, maybe. "Everyone should be there by now. Right, well, he's got better things to do. Or so the legend goes."

I hear a muffle across the line that can only be a 'yes' answer. I move behind Bruce's chair, and clear my throat, making myself known. Bruce's chair turns around in place and he regards me for a moment. I purse my lips, and he holds up a preemptive finger for me to be quiet.

"Copy that," he says, and then turns to me. "Standby."

"For what?"

"Something happened in San Francisco. The Tower is destroyed. The Titans aren't responding."

"What about Conner?" I ask pressingly. Bruce rises from the chair, his cape drapes over his shoulder, forming a dark cloak over his body. Even through his mask I can see the scorn in his eyes.

"He's disappeared," Bruce says.

"What do you mean disappeared? What happened?"

"I don't know," he says quietly.

My shoulders slump in disappointment, and I feel a sudden jolt. Blue energy bands appear around me, covering me from head to toe. We're being teleported.

I open my eyes, and I'm in the Watchtower. It's been…a long time since I've been here. At least since that Imperiex fiasco a few years back. Yet another victory for Lex Luthor…at the cost of people's lives. But that's small potatoes—contextually anyway—compared to what's going on. Superboy unaccounted for, possibly missing-in-action. The rest of the Titans missing, injured or worse.

Something wicked this way comes.

Bruce and I have been teleported to the Watchtower—more specifically, the Observation Deck on one of the upper decks.

Superman stands on a platform on the far side of the room, staring out into space and the prevailing view of Earth in the distance. Aquaman—who I'm almost surprised even bothers to show up anymore—stands on the next level down with his chest puffed out proudly and his hands formed into tight fists. I've had…limited contact with him, but he seems to have a personality somewhere between Bruce and Vic Sage; paranoid and defensive, but not entirely crackpot. Can't say I blame him, though. Man's got a kingdom to look after.

Wally and Diana stand in the middle of the room talking in whispers to each other. They both look like they've just seen ghosts. Martian Manhunter—J'onn J'onnz—sits in a chair near Wally and Diana.

Surprisingly absent is a Green Lantern—any Green Lantern. Not John, not Hal...and not Kyle; he was 'replaced' by Hal Jordan, as it were.

"Is everyone here?" Superman's voice echoes across the room.

"We're here, Clark. What did you want?" Bruce is short and simple—as usual. He folds his arms over his chest and moves next to J'onn, standing. I do the subservient sidekick thing and stand next to Bruce. It's...uncomfortable.

Being in the presence of gods.

Superman turns from the glass cathedral-height windows to the group. He looks terrible. Hair messed up, and stubble laced across his jawline.

"What do we know, J'onn?"

"Forty minutes ago, there was an explosion in San Francisco at Titans Tower. The Tower collapsed in on itself. All the Titans except Speedy were reported as on-duty. I sent Firestorm to investiagate, and he came back with Kid Flash and Wonder Girl."

"So what does that mean?" I interject. I freeze for a moment, half-thinking one of the Leaguers will call me an idiot for speaking or shoot me a dirty look. Lucky for me that they don't.

"It means someone was able to get past the Tower's defenses. And potentially ours," J'onn replies with concern.

"What else do you have?" Superman asks.

"Twenty minutes ago, there was another explosion, this one in orbit. It was a **satellite**."

"Do we know which one?" Superman seems…unnaturally stoic. I wonder if even Bruce sees it. Probably, and he probably loves it.

"There are thousands of satellites in orbit," Wally chimes in. "Unless we have a smoking gun—some fragment that didn't burn up on entry—we'll never know."

My eyes track across to Bruce. I can see his jaw muscles tighten. Wally glances at Bruce and then back at Superman. My eyes lock on Bruce's. He glances at me momentarily, and goes back to Superman. It was Bruce's satellite that blew up. The Brother Mark or whatever the hell he calls it. Part of me wonders of the two incidents are linked...

"The larger concern right now is Titans Tower," J'onn says steepling his fingers.

"The real question" Aquaman says, "is firepower. Who has the capability to destroy a building like that?"

"It could be anyone," Wally says. "Grodd, Zoom…hell it could even be Deathstroke."

"Unlikely," Bruce says. "It had to be someone who knew the Tower's defenses. Someone who's studied the building—in and out."

"What are you saying, Bruce?" Superman asks.

"I'm saying it had to be an inside job. Period."

"We're all thinking the same thing," J'onn says. "Superboy."

Superman tries to protest. "That's not—"

"True? It **is**, Superman."

"He's right," I say sternly. "It's Luthor. Somehow controlling Superboy."

"Luthor is **dead**," Superman says intently.

"No," J'onn says. "He's **alive**. Underground. Reorganized. Broke, yes, but his resolve is as strong as it ever was."

Wonder Woman's been surprisingly silent the whole time. But that changes.

"Either way, Robin is right," she says, turning to Superman. Wally stares over her shoulder at the Man of Steel. He looks like he's having a hard time digesting this. How could Superboy do it? I ask myself the same question…

"Wonder Girl and Bart are in the medical bay a deck below us. If you don't believe us, Clark, perhaps **they** can change that."

* * *

And so the League (plus myself and minus Aquaman and J'onn) takes a field trip down to B-Deck to see Bart and Cass. Both of them are lying in hospital beds with tubes going in and out of their arms…like they're about to undergo surgery. Bart's got a burn mark across his shoulder, muslin wrapping around his ribs, some minor lacerations around his pectorals. One of his wrists is wound in an Ace-wrap. Cass' only visible damage is an arm in a lets-be-honest-here ugly beige sling. 

But despite that, they look surprisingly good; for what I can only assume they've been through. Bart's stuffing Jell-O pudding into his mouth two messy spoonfuls at a time and Cass is watching "The View" on the plasma screen at the foot of her bed.

"Hey!" Bart yells in a muffle. He's too gluttonous for his own good. Not that it matters, I suppose, with a freakishly-high, non-Speed Force related metabolism and a runner's build.

"Long time no see," he says to me. "I was beginning to think you didn't love us anymore."

I crack a smile and approach Bart's bedside. Pat him on the shoulder extra-light, making sure not to excite the wounds too much.

"Nah," I say reassuringly. "Nice to see the ravages of battle haven't, ah, messed wiht you too badly."

"Only my eating habits," he says confidently. "But I'm ready for anything."

"Good. We might need that."

I look at Cass sitting her bed. "The View" has gone to a commercial and she looks over at me. My attention drifts from Bart for a moment, and my eyes lock with Cass'.

"Hi Cass. How are ya?"

She swallows whatever's in her mouth, smiles curtly and gives me a thumbs-up.

"Just okay?" I ask with a wink, trying my damndest to play the 'smooth criminal' card. "Not…wonderful?"

She smiles curtly and returns to her turkey sandwich and television. Wonder Woman sits on the edge of Cass' bed and starts talking to her. A second later, Clark and Bruce are in on it. I feel something tugging at my glove, and my head drifts down. Bart.

"Hey," he says. "Control yourself, killer."

"Yeah, yeah," I say, dismissing it. "Bart, can I get serious for a minute?"

"Sure," he says, waving a hand in approval. "G'ahead."

I kneel beside his bed and grab his hand. "Bart, I need to know what happened. Who did this to you?"

"You don't waste any time," he says.

"Come on."

He eyeballs me curiously for a moment and a corner of his mouth flashes upward in prying disdain. He doesn't want to tell me what happened, and were the circumstances different, I wouldn't ask him to.

"These wounds didn't just happen, Bart. I need to know—the **League **needs to know--what happened in 'Frisco. They think it was Superboy."

"You have to understand," Bart says haphazardly. "We should have seen it coming. God knows we had to the means to stop him, but we didn't. We were too late."

"What happened?"

"He came out of nowhere. Raven, Cyborg and Gar tried to stop him, but he took em out before they knew what was going on. Cassie and I didn't have a chance."

"But it **was **Superboy?" I ask intently. "You're sure?"

"Yeah," Bart says distantly. "He really beat the hell out of us."

"It's okay," I say in half-reassurance. I stand and crack my knuckles. Lousy PS2…gives a guy arthritis, it does.

"What are you gonna do?" Bart asks.

I give a short sigh, glance around the room, and look back at Bart.

"I'm going after him."

"No!" Bart protests. "You don't stand a chance, Tim. He's not himself."

"I know," I say quietly. "I intend to use that."

I turn to leave, waving at Cass, who's still talking to Diana and company. Bart calls to me again.

"Tim," he says calmly. I turn around in the threshold and lean against the doorframe.

"Yeah?"

"Just…take care of yourself."

* * *

"What is this!" Maxwell Lord's voice echoes across the space of the control room at the heart of Checkmate's European branch. A few meters away from him stand three members of Lex Luthor's Secret Society: Zoom, the new Reverse-Flash; Deathstroke the Terminator; and Black Adam, first bearer of the power of Shazam and ruler of Khandaq. It's an impressive group to assemble. But there's a loophole. There always is. 

"Your usefulness has outlived itself, Maxwell Lord."

"I don't think so," he says tightly. Lord removes a small remote control from his belt loop and speaks into it. "OMAC protocol, Black Adam recipient, Black si—"

Before Lord can finish his sentence, he looks down at his open hand. The remote is gone. Taken…by Zoom.

"It's an impressive gesture, Max" Deathstroke says. "But you can't win." Next to the Terminator, Zoom materializes out of thin air—a yellow-clad ghost on a higher plane of existence, almost. Again, impressive.

"I beg to differ, Wilson. It doesn't matter what happens to me, so long as Checkmate goes on."

"There are ways around that," Deathstroke says patronizingly. In an instant, he throws an arm forward. A bowie knife slices through the air and embeds itself in Max Lord's shoulder. With a painful grunt, Lord falls to his knees. Deathstroke and company approach the Black King. Deathstroke pulls a shotgun from its holster slung around his back and angles it at Lord's forehead.

Lord's head lifts slowly and his glazed eyes stare at Deathstroke.

Blood trickles from his nostrils.

"Nice try," Deathstroke says with contempt. "Parlor tricks don't work on **my** brain, Maxie. Your little computer should have told you that."

"You're a bastard," Lord whispers ruefully. And the loophole presents itself: death. Betrayal. Treachery.

Deathstroke pulls the trigger, and the back of Maxwell Lord's head explodes over the computer console behind him. Lord's body falls to the ground with a dull thud. A pool of blood forms around his head and neck, and his dead eyes stare back at Deathstroke.

"Turnabout's fair play, padre," Deathstroke says lightly, strapping the shotgun back in its holster.

Black Adam taps his ear, accessing his communicator.

"Mission accomplished," Adam says sternly.

"Good," Luthor's voice replies. "Once you're outside, have Zoom destroy the castle with one of those** sonic booms** of his. Then return to base. We might have a situation here."

* * *

**_Continued... _**


	8. Higher Faculties

_Apologies for the lack of updates lately. Hopefully this chapter will sate your thirsts. Or not. Either way, enjoy._

_And see if you can figure out what the heck Luthor's talking about. You might be surprised;). Or not...

* * *

_

"Batman?" Martian Manhunter's face flashes in front of us, pasted against the glowing face of the computer monitor.

"What is it, J'onn?"

After I left Bart and Cassie in the Medical Bay, I found Bruce here in the computer lab. Typing away at the computer console. I'm sitting in a chair next to him just watching him go at it. He's a pro all right. Years of training not just in physical arts, but computer tech make Bruce something more than just a man. He's a tactician—a modern day Hannibal.

Minus the elephants.

But I can't exactly put my finger on what he's looking for. I shouldn't really be surprised though. Bruce does this from time to time. There's a big situation on our hands, and he heads for the computer. While the rest of the League is out in space, guns blazing, fighting a giant starfish or three-eyed crazy, Bruce hangs back in the Tower and strategizes.

At least Hannibal was out on the battlefield...

Bruce minimizes the video-window showing J'onn, and keeps typing. It almost looks like he's drawing up schematics. J'onn continues.

"There is something headed for the Watchtower. Very fast."

"It's Superboy," Bruce says pointedly. He keeps typing. "Lower the defenses, J'onn."

"Are you certain?" J'onn seems unnaturally…worrisome. While Bruce could be wrong, it's unlikely that he is. Especially now. I lay a hand on Bruce's forearm and his attention shifts to me.

"It's Luthor," I interject. "He's controlling Conner somehow."

Bruce turns to me, muttering. "You're sure?"

"Fairly," I say, cocking an eye.

Bruce turns back to the screen and maximizes the vid-window.

"Tim says Luthor's behind this."

"It would only make sense," J'onn replies. "If the Titans were just a test, then the real measure of Superboy's power would be facing Superman."

"Agreed," Bruce says. He stands from the computer console and cracks his knuckles. I can hear the cartilage snapping through the Kevlar and Nomex insulation on his gloves. Creepy. Almost.

"What about the rest of us?" J'onn asks. "Luthor wouldn't consider a frontal attack of this magnitude unless he intended Superboy to take out the **rest** of the League."

"You're right," Bruce says, glancing at me. "He hasn't thought about the rest of us, or he has and doesn't consider us a threat. I suspect it's the latter."

"So you're not worried about us?"

"No," Bruce says brusquely. "You can handle yourselves."

"What about you?"

Bruce sits back in the chair. He pulls the cowl off, scratches his forehead a few times, and stares at the screen for a thoughtful moment.

"Is Hal occupied?"

"You're...asking for his assistance?"

"I asked if he was busy," Bruce says, half-defensively. "We might need him."

"As near as I can tell, "J'onn says, "he's in San Diego. Talking to Arthur."

"Alright," Bruce says. "I'm headed for the Conference Room now. Meet me there, and bring Clark and Wally with you."

"Right," J'onn says. Bruce closes the vid-window and moves for the door. A few seconds later, and I'm trying to keep up with him as he sweeps through the corridor. This is Bruce when he's got an idea; moving fast so he can start putting it in motion. Never stopping to rest or consider alternatives.

Part of me wants Bruce to explain himself. And another part of me wants Bruce to stay out of this. If I know him—and I do—he'll bust out the Kryptonite on Conner. My only problem there is that the green K might not work on Conner at all. Since he's not a purebred Kryptonian, for lack of a better word, he may yet be immune to it. If that hunk of rock doesn't work on Conner…then we're in trouble.

Conner's not himself. Bart told me that much, and…it was the way he said it…I believed him. But Bruce's plan? Wait for Conner to hit first.

Sitting ducks.

If I hadn't been through this kind of exercise with Bruce in the past—If I wasn't so sure this gamble of his would pay off—I'd almost be scared.

We reach one of the turbolifts and step in. A second later the capsule's rocketing upwards, towards the main decks and the Monitor Womb.

After a silence, I clear my throat.

"So," I say awkwardly.

"What?" Bruce asks, staring straight ahead at the LED display showing floors zipping past us. The cab slows; we're getting close.

"Are you gonna use the ring on him?"

"No," Bruce says. "With his physiology, I can't be sure how it would affect him."

"Great minds think alike," I say, cracking a smile.

"Something like that," Bruce says dubiously.

Kryptonite obviously packs a wollop to your run-of-the-mill Kryptonian. Hell, it even affected Luthor's body—a mere human one—long ago and far away, but that was only after prolonged exposure. So unless we strap Superboy to a chair with the Kryptonite gagged in his throat and leave him there for ten years, he may not feel it at all.

"It's a risk we can't take," Bruce says.

"Understandable," I say, clasping my hands behind my back. And I look around the cab anxiously, bouncing lightly on the heels of my feet. Being fidgety on purpose. Bruce will get tired of it in about three seconds.

"You have something to say, Tim?"

"Yep," I say expectantly. "I've got a plan of my own, y'see."

"Such as?"

"I'm going to appeal to Superboy's higher faculties."

* * *

"You've done well, Adam. The gods that **power** you would be pleased." 

Black Adam's voice echoes across the void of Luthor's main chamber, in his bunker underneath Goodwin airport. Deathstroke and Zoom flank Black Adam on either side. A few meters away from the ruler of Khandaq, Luthor sits rigidly in his faux throne, a high-back ottoman, colored blood red.

"Yes," Black Adam says sternly, confidently. "They encourage our crusade."

"I'm sure," Luthor says. "And where is our good friend Mister Lord?"

"At the bottom of the English Channel." There's a tinge of superiority in Black Adam. Like he's supremely pleased with his work. And well he should be; Lord's death was the first step in a larger scheme.

To end the war before it can begin.

"Good," Luthor replies with a half-smile.

Deathstroke interjects, his reserved monotone muffled by the orange-and-black mask covering his head. "What about Superboy?"

"He's headed for the Moon," Luthor says. He pulls a remote from his jacket and presses the single red button on it. A panel in the floor before Black Adam slides back, and a mini-projector rises, casting a floating three dimensional image of the Moon.

"You're sending him to the Watchtower," Deathstroke says, half-surprised.

"It's the natural next step," Luthor replies. He rises from the ottoman and steps own the dais, starts pacing around the 3-D Moon. "I'm confident in his ability."

"You overestimate his power, Luthor," Black Adam protests in a stern tenor. "Superboy cannot face them alone."

"Would **you** like to offer him some assistance?" Luthor asks abstractly. Black Adam's mouth curves downward in silent disapproval. He disapproves of Luthor's attitude, but he's not interested ingoing to the Moon.

"I admit, Lex," Deathstroke says, dodging Luthor's question. He pulls of his mask and gives a furtive stare at the Moon. "I don't know what you **think** you can accomplish here. The satellite's destroyed, Checkmate's all but dead. What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"We don't **need** Checkmate," Luthor says cryptically.

Slade Wilson's eyebrow angles sharply in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

Luthor returns to the ottoman. "Something very big is going to happen very soon. I've **seen** it. I intend to make sure that when all is said and done, we—**all** of us—stand only to **benefit** from it."

Deathstroke's one good eye narrows. "I don't know what you're up to, Lex. I don't like this new agenda of yours."

"Your approval was not one of my criteria." Luthor doesn't miss a beat saying it.

Deathstroke sneers, and turns away from Luthor and the 3-D Moon. He pushes on of the doors to the chamber open and storms out angrily, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.

In the main chamber, Black Adam and Zoom watch Deathstroke go and turn back to Luthor.

_"Youknowsomething,"_ Zoom asks Luthor.

"Yes," Luthor replies curtly.

"Is it in your nature to hide it from us?" Black Adam questions. "After all, I felt we were…equals. Unless you've had a change of heart?"

"When the time is **right**, gentlemen," Luthor says darkly. "You will know what we are up against….and who will stand with us."

* * *

**_Continued..._**


	9. Confrontation

Author's Note: by the end of this chapter, some of you may hate me for taking Superman out so easily. I await the flames (I'm a sucker like that;)), and I hope you will await an explanation when next I update. Cheers.

* * *

By the time Tim Drake and Batman reach the Conference Room on the Watchtower's Main Deck, Superman, The Flash and the Martian Manhunter are already waiting for them; the three men mill aimlessly around the oval conference table in the middle of the room. 

Batman approaches the Admiral's Chair, lays a hand on one of the armrests and swings the chair around in place. He pulls the folds of his dark cape over his shoulders, and sinks into the chair. Robin joins him at his side, flanked by The Flash. Superman and the Martian Manhunter occupy the other end.

It's a powerful force. Two aliens, a speedster, and a human. The latter perhaps the most dangerous of all.

The human carries the most dangerous weapon on the planet atop his neck. The weapon that devised ways to end wars, cure diseases,and createfive hundred ways to kill someone based on firearm preference alone. But the arguably greatest thing the human can do to win battles...

Psychology.

**Make** the enemy doublethink himself. Doubt, hesitation. These are weapons to be used against the enemy. Arguably the greatest weapons at the Batman's disposal. Commensurate with circumstances, he leaves the physicality of the operation to more suited allies.

The Conference Room is cold. Even through his triple-weave armor composed of Nomex and Kevlar and God-knows-what-else-Bruce-threw-in-there, Tim Drake can feel an overhead air vent filter air, purified to the point of near-lifelessness,into the chamber.

In the back of his mind, Tim Drake makes a note. The uniform exposes too much of his skin—too much fragility and too many stakeouts in twenty degree weather. He makes a half-priority to rectify the problem. Later, though. Larger problems need dealing with now...

"Everyone knows their part," Batman says tersely. "Clark—"

"I know. Defense."

"Wally?"

"I'm ready,"he whispers. The Martian Manhunter nods silently. Robin remains motionless, staring at the featureless Utility Door ahead of him. He forms his hands into tight fists, and swallows.

"No surprises." Batman is calm. Collected.

In the front of his mind, Superman wonders how it came to this. A frontal attack on the Justice League Watchtower by none other than the Man of Steel's own protégé.

And he had **seen** him. Not two days ago. A normal boy, as normal goes these days. But Superboy was going through…changes. A growing focus on his place in the world, coupled with uncertainty—for lack of a better word—over his lineage.

Superboy is controlled by Luthor. Luthor wants a bite at the Justice League like the overzealous, overperfected basket case he is. Superboy is coming to destroy the Watchtower.

Superboy can't hope to win.

And it comes. Superman hears it first, and the others hear it a few seconds later.A low, sustained, pounding. A hammer of flesh and blood breaking through bulkheads, though he shouldn't be.

Flash's jaw clenches.

Martian Manhunter's eyes shut in meditation.

Batman's mouth curves down in a scowl.

Superman's eyes spark red.

The Man of Steel is ready for whatever comes through that door. And yet…

The defenses were lowered. Superboy should just walk in and have his way. Why go out of his way to cause unnecessary damage?

Answer: There's no such thing as unnecessary damage to Lex Luthor. His entire life is dictated by necessity. Purpose. Spite.

The Utility Door parts through a linear seam in the middle and slides apart. Superboy's telekinesis has apparently lost none of its power.

Superboy—or something vaguely resembling him—stands in the threshold, arms held tightly at his side. His black tee, with the red diamond Superman shield on it, is cut. One horizontal line bisecting the S inside the diamond, and another vertical line cuts through the upper curve of the S and the diamond border.

The shape of a capital letter L, cut into Superboy's shirt.

He's bald, having shaved his hair sometime between now and having destroyed the Brother Eye satellite.

His eyes burn a violent, fiery red. White spots of intense heat exist where his pupils once were. Excess heat wisps away from his face in simmering curls.

Batman, unfettered, says the first words.

"J'onn."

The Martian Manhunter—a well-known telepath—takes two steps forward.

"Ask yourself." His voice is calm…yet stern. "Is this where you truly wish to be?"

"Get out of the way, Martian," Superboy says, baring his teeth in anger.

J'onn disregards it. "You cannot hope to defeat all of us."

"You're right," Superboy says, allowing himself a smile.

Beams of fire shoot from Superboy's eyes and strike J'onn in the chest. The Martian can't phase shift—can't achieve intangibility—in time enough to evade the heat vision. He falls to his knees with a scream, trying to counteract or endure Superboy's assault.

Fire is the weakness of the Martians. Well, the last living one anyway. Superboy exploits it, pouring on the heat until J'onn J'onzz is a pile of amorphous green on the floor.

"Just the ones that matter."

Superboy relinquishes the heat vision. Beneath him, J'onn quivers and murmurs in silent pain. The Teen of Steel's eyes no longer burn the fiery red. They appear normal now. But different. Burn marks and scars are concentrated around his eyes.

Momentarily letting his guard down, Robin takes a step forward.

"Conner?" He whispers uncomprehendingly.

"Stay back," Batman urges.

"Yes," Conner says. But its not…**his** voice. "Stay back, Tim." Whoever it is inside Conner's head…they know the man behind the mask.

"What do you want, Conner?" Superman interjects. His hands form into fists; he holds them tightly at his side. Ready to spring into action.

Superboy's eyebrows arch and he raises a finger in Superman's direction.

"I want **you**, Kent."

Twin beams of fire shoot from Superboy's eyes, and meet beams of equal intensity from Superman. Almost instantly, Superboy starts to relent. There is…something inside him. A reluctance.

Superman considers himself fortunate. And a more perverse part of his subconscious allows him to enjoy gaining the slow upper hand.

"I'm more powerful than you," Superman goads. "I've spent more time here. You can't win."

The Man of Steel lets a blast of ice breath loose. The frigid air catches a distracted Superboy in the legs.A block of thick ice binds Conner Kent to the floor.

Superman lets his heat vision fade out, and regards Superboy for a moment. He'll break out of it. But not for another three seconds. Plenty of time to incapacitate him.

In a blur, Superman forms a wall around his young protégé, landing successive punches on the Teen of Steel. But Superman pulls his punches.

He cares for the seduced boy encased in ice.

It's a weakness. Partially.

In a flash, Superboy breaks free of the ice with a grunt and sticks a rigid arm in the air. His elbow catches Superman in the nose. The Teen of Steel throttles Superman, hoists him a few inches into the air, and forces him away.

Superman's body flies limply across the room, landing and skidding across the conference table. It comes to rest on the far edge of the table.

Robin's cape drapes over his shoulder. Underneath the Kevlar and Nomex compound-weave, an unseen arm reaches into a lead-lined compartment on the backside of the Utility Belt.

* * *

**_Continued..._**

* * *

Author's Note II: The bit with the heat vision between Conner and J'onn is borrowed, elementally at least, from Jeph Loeb's _Superman_ #175, entitled "Doomsday Rex." 


	10. No Surprises

_Masquerading as a man with a reason  
My charade is the event of the season_

_-Kansas, "Carry On My Wayward Son"_

* * *

Robin's gloved fingers slide underneath the belt clasp—the lid separating a fragment of green Kryptonite, little smaller than a golf ball, from the outside world. 

The Boy Wonder hesitates. If he's too quick about it, the whole operation could be compromised. Too slow, and Superboy would make ashes out of everyone.

In the back of his mind, he hopes Batman's got a back-up plan.

Of course, Batman **does**. He always has contingencies. It's his modus operandi, as the expression goes.

Robin opens the clasp on his Utility Belt and slides two fingers around the angled sharpness of the green rock, pulling it out from the lead-lined compartment slowly.

No motion. No surprises. Move the arm slowly; the cape can't move. Conner can't know what's going on. Or else everything's screwed.

He should have woven a layer of lead into his cape.

Superboy stands rigidly over what's left of the Martian Manhunter. His arms are held tightly at his side, and his eyes burn a violent red. His heat vision is in excess, the wisps of heat scarring and burning the areas around his eyes.

"What's he waiting for?" Flash asks blankly.

"Instructions," Batman mutters.

Robin inhales quietly, and releases. Now or never. He throws back one side of his cape over his shoulder and opens his hand. The Kryptonite fragment lays motionless in his palm, its invisible radiation already working.

Psychologically at least.

As soon as Robin reveals the Kryptonite, Superboy's heat vision kicks off, and his eyes flash in abrupt surprise. This is something he didn't count on.

"Yeah," Robin says. "You know what this is."

"You've used it on me before," Superboy replies. His voice is gravel.

"Some things never change," Robin says tightly. "Do they?"

The Boy Wonder tosses the Kryptonite chunk into the air, catching it, and repeating the motion. Trying to be playful about it.

Superboy's knees begin to shudder, and he presses a hand against his temple, trying to suppress a headache. Robin extends his arm, positioning the Kryptonite closer to Superboy.

"And the Kryptonite starts working. The radiation…it almost **seeks** you out. And starts **wasting** you away. Your cells begin to atrophy. Your breathing shortens, and you become dizzy from a weakened blood flow."

Robin steps closer to the Teen of Steel, tightening his grip around the Kryptonite.

"This is what its like to die, Conner." Robin's almost surprised at how a little amount of Kryptonite can affect Superboy thusly. "This is pain. You're learning it.

"This is what Luthor never told you. That you **can** be hurt. You **can** be defeated." Robin allows himself a moment of reserved pride. "And I'm just the man to do it."

"You're…lying…" Superboy mutters weakly. He falls to his knees.

"Possibly," Robin says lightly. "Is that a risk you're willing to take?"

"This…is pointless," Superboy gasps.

Batman's eyes narrow and he entertains a thought.

_He's trying too hard._

"I can destroy you," Superboy rasps. "I **must** destroy you. You cannot stop me from my goals."

"Conner," Robin says; his voice suddenly comforting. "Look at me."

The Boy Wonder tightens his grip on the Kryptonite. He slides his free hand up the side of his face. Nice and slow. No surprises. Gloved fingers wedge themselves between Robin's domino mask and Tim Drake's parched skin. He pulls the mask off and clasps it between his thumb and forefinger.

"Look at my face," Tim Drake repeats. He swallows the saliva at the back of his throat nervously. He inhales slowly, his chest and shoulders rising, and then sinking as he exhales. "And remember…"

Superboy's shoulders slump a bit. And it starts to come back to him. Slowly.

Those people. Beast Boy and Raven and Cyborg. And the others…Cassie and Bart…where are they? Are they all right?

_Does it matter? What have they **ever** done for you, Conner?_

The question rings through his head—his heart—eating at him like a dragon. A cold, dead one.

Not nearly dead enough.

_Overcome your limitations_, Lex said, _and you'll achieve true power. You'll be able to defeat Superman. Not directly, though. You must destroy something he loves. Something he believes in._

_His friends._

"For God's sake, remember who I am," Robin whispers in desperation. "Who you once were. The work we did together…to make the world a better place. It's not too late to start over. Luthor hasn't taken control of you fully."

"It's…too late for me, Robin," Superboy whispers weakly. He's caught somewhere between depression and futility. "This is my purpose, and my place. I've accepted it…"

"You don't have to accept anything." The Boy Wonder's voice rises.

"It's what I was **made** to do," he says through gritted teeth. "Don't ask me to choose."

"**Look** at this—look around you. What you've become—what you've done for him. Is **this**…how you want to be remembered? Fighting Lex's battles for him again and again and again! Until you end up broke, when you're no longer useful to him. He doesn't give a **damn** what you think."

"He showed me the light. Rescued me from…the deepest corners…"

"The deepest corners of what, Conner? Luthor took control of you—**used** you. You don't owe him anything."

"I owe him everything," Superboy says with a grimace. "No one understands…none of you can see it. But you'll thank me for this. Every single one of you…"

And then it dawns on Tim Drake. Something he's been missing this entire time. Conner is not Conner. His voice is different….more rigid. He's being forced to speak. But how?

"Lex," Tim says, coming to a quiet realization. Luthor is controlling Superboy through some...implant in the boy. Invading Conner's life. Compromising his dignity. "You sick bastard. Let him go."

"**No**," Conner says gutturally, in a flash of anger. "You will learn to let go, Robin. You already have. Everything you love has been stripped away from you. Your father, your girlfriends. Aquista and that **stupid** little blonde, whatever her name was. I had **Sionis** kill her you know."

Conner flashes a sick, toothy grin. "I almost wonder. How did it feel? How did you get over the **pain** you must have felt from their deaths?"

Robin scowls. He loosens his grip on the Kryptonite, throwing it straight for Superboy's head.

The Kryptonite hits Superboy between the eyes. He stumbles a few steps and massages the point of impact carefully. The world looks…hazy.

In an instant, Robin lunges forward, tackling Superboy. Robin forces him to the ground. Three right crosses push the air from Superboy's lungs. Robin reaches to the chunk of Kryptonite on the floor beside him.

"You wanna talk to me about pain? I **know** pain, Conner. I know it all too well. Sometimes…I share it. With someone like you."

And the Boy Wonder starts throwing punches. One hand is just a tightly held fist, underneath Kevlar and Nomex reinforcement. The other hand holds a golf-ball sized fragment of the now dead planet Krypton.

Robin wails on Superboy like a schoolyard bully. Unlike the Man of Steel, Robin doesn't pull his punches. Broken bones be damned.

Every hit with the Kryptonite forms purple bruise on Superboy's face.

Every hit makes Tim Drake grit his teeth even more. Months worth of anger course through his fist. Inside his head, with every inch of him, Tim Drake is determined to bring Conner around. Even if it means beating the self-loathing, self-victimizing crap out of the boy.

Inside thirty seconds of the tackle, Superboy cedes the fight, claiming innocence and gasping for air. Robin stops himself. The Kryptonite fragment is heavy in his hand.

Through blood-stained teeth, Superboy manages another grin.

"You never learn," he says with a half-smile.

Robin scowls. With his free hand, he hooks Superboy's jaw and pulls it open. The other hand forces the Kryptonite rock between Superboy's teeth, gagging him.

Not for long though. If the Kryptonite stays there long enough…Superboy won't have anything to gag on. Just the bleak airlessness of death.

"Likewise," Robin says pointedly.

Superboy's eyes flutter and his face whitens. Robin grabs Superboy's shirt by the neckline and raises a fist.

"Now," the Boy Wonder says grimly. "It doesn't have to be this way, Conner. I don't want to do this."

Robin leans closer to Superboy.

"Tell me, Conner. Why did I beat you?"

Superboy's eyes burn hatefully. He begins to feel…a creeping sensation. A cold vine curling through his body. The Kryptonite radiation is working. Very soon, he will have no expectations to meet. Not Superman's. Not Luthor's.

Not anyone's.

"It burns, doesn't it, Conner? The Kryptonite radiation taking over your system. It will always burn you. Part of you will always be part of Krypton. Its dead now…and you may be too in a few minutes.

"But you hate it. You hate that you can be defeated, and that's what that rock between your teeth represents. Fallibility. But you can't beat me…and that drives you nuts. That you're not the best and brightest. So you go out and destroy, you kill, you pillage. In the name of self-gratification. Knowing that when it's all said and done…there'll be nothing left except you. No challenges. No great battles to win, no monsters to fight, no hearts or minds to win.

"It's lonely at the top of the mountain, Conner."

Superboy's eyes calm. His hate begins to fade. Robin continues. He knows his audience. Luthor has ears on what's playing out. In the back of his mind, the Boy Wonder almost wonders who he's really talking to.

Conner. Lex. Does it matter?

Robin continues.

"And you have to make something of it now. No one else can. If you don't…you run through life as half a man. So far less than what you could be. A Composer gone deaf, a pilot gone blind. You know where the power is, but you can't tap into it. Do you really want to?

"It requires…sacrifice—work. You have to dig deep, get dirty. And you don't **want** to. You want the quick and easy path. You want someone to do it for you."

Robin pulls the Kryptonite chunk from Superboy's mouth and sets it on the floor, pushing it away.

"Why did I beat you? Because you're too weak."

A few feet away, Batman catches the rock and slides it into a lead-lined pocket on his own Utility Belt.

Robin doesn't take his eyes off Superboy.

"Now you know. You can be defeated. And once you are, you're a different person. Angry…sad. It doesn't matter. But you can't go back."

Robin lowers his fist.

"Not ever."

Superboy's scarred, scorched-red eyes close tightly. A tear edges out of one corner.

The dragon in Conner's head stares at him, its eyes burning hate. _What are you doing? Get out there! This fight is yours! Take it! _The dragon calls to Conner._ It is your birthright._

Inside his head, Conner's boot grinds into the dragon. It gives a final cry of defiance:_ Is this how you want it to end? An anticlimactic end to an anticlimactic life._

And silence. Conner's agony fades. Something makes sense…finally.

The dragon isn't telling Superboy anything different. No secret of the universe. No simple adventure story. Tim is right.

He always helped keep the dragon down.

Superboy's heat vision kicks off, and his knees wobble beneath him. He falls to the floor with a dull thud, buries his face in his arms.

Tim is right.

"I…I never meant to hurt anyone," Superboy says quietly.

"I know," Robin replies calmly. He stands and pulls Conner up with him. Tim Drake wraps his arms around Conner Kent in a hug.

"I know…"

* * *

The Watchtower Medical Bay. 

Bart Allen and Tim Drake.

I catch Bart in what seems to be some weird trance. His iPod lies on the bed next to him. The earphones are screwed in his ears and he's drumming his fingers on the plastic tray over his lap. His head lies lazily on the pillow, staring at the ceiling…or, more appropriately, the back of his eyelids.

His eyes flutter open, and he sees me instantly.

"Hey!" Bart says smoothly, pulling the earphones off.

I ease myself down onto the side of the bed. "Where's Wally? I haven't seen him since we all left the Conference Room."

"He teleported back home. He's taking Linda to a hockey game tonight. Keystone and Detroit," Bart says with an arched eyebrow and a grin. Like he's perfectly impressed with the idea. "Should be fun."

"I'm sure."

Bart turns off the iPod and starts shoveling a plate of green Jell-O in his mouth.

"So…"

"What?"

"How is he?"

"Conner? He'll be fine." I wave a dismissive hand. "With time and rest."

"That's what **he** said. Before this all blew up in our faces."

"Well, touché," I say frankly. "But if I'm right, Luthor won't be coming back anytime soon."

"Yeah?"

"He's got bigger fish to fry."

Bart goes back to his food, cutting into what appears to be a steak. You're a lucky man, Bart Allen.

"Let's hope so," Bart says with a smile.

* * *

**_Continued..._**


	11. Vignette

Author's Note: I'll keep it short, since you'll all want to get reading (yeah, right;)). First off, thanks for the reviews/spell checks and criticisms (a bad review never hurt anyone). If I've been able to entertain you, then consider us even.

Cheers.

* * *

_The Batcave._

_Tim Drake and Bruce Wayne._

_Partners_

The screen glows a mesmerizing green behind a technical cross-section of Arkham Asylum. It seems to catch Bruce's attention. If he didn't have actual work to do, part of me would think Bruce comes down here just to stare at the screen.

"So," I say, inspecting a hangnail. "You left the Watchtower in a hurry."

"I've got work to do."

"When don't you?" I say, cracking a smile.

"How did it go?" he asks. Always prompt.

"You were there, weren't you?" I shoot back demurely. Bruce always hates it when I answer his question with a question. Its part of that whole "follow my orders and don't question them" bit Dick tells me about. Bruce doesn't like being questioned.

But I do it anyway: "What about Superman? He's not…mad…is he?"

"I told him you used the Kryptonite," Bruce says. "He was just glad he was far enough away."

"Too many bad run-ins, I take it?"

"Something like that," Bruce says mildly. "Are the others all right?"

"Oh yeah. Cyborg's up at the Watchtower undergoing reconstruction, and Raven and Beast Boy checked out all right. Cassie should be on Themyscira by now. And Bart's back in Keystone. I think." It's always nice, I tell myself in that ironic tone, to give a status report to Bruce. Makes me feel like I'm contributing to the team effort. For what that's worth.

"Fine," Bruce says. He sips from a cup of tea beside him, sets it back down. "And Superboy?"

"What **about** him?"

"Do you know where he went?"

"He has a name, you know," I say shortly. "He's not just Superman-lite."

"Where **is** he?"

"He went back to San Francisco," I say with a sigh. "Said he was going to rebuild the Tower. By himself."

My ears catch what sounds like a snort. Here it comes.

"And you trust him?" Bruce asks.

"Yeah," I say calmly. "I do."

"Someone should."

"Come on, Bruce! You knew what was going on. What he was up against."

Bruce's chair swivels around in place. His arms are folded over his chest, and his eyebrows are angled sharply. Full-on Batman mode now.

"You're right, Tim," Bruce says pointedly. "I **still** know what he's going through. And I didn't give in. Do you know why?"

"No, why?" I ask, my voice a mix of confusion and anger. Here comes a lecture.

"It **means** something when we put ourselves in harm's way. We do it to protect our families and our friends. To honor what **they** fought for."

His chair swivels back around, and I hear the sound of his fingers dancing across the keyboard.

"Conner just needs to figure out what **he's** fighting for."

* * *

_The Justice League Trophy Room._

_Bart Allen...and his grandfather, Barry._

_Heroes._

The picture can't talk back to me. Even if it could, though, chances are it wouldn't. With everything he did in his life, taking time for a family was probably small potatoes.

But even so, my eyes are fixed on him.

My grandpa, Barry Allen, situated on the bottom row of a larger ensemble.

Green Arrow, Black Canary, Hawkman, Zatanna, and Grandpa Barry kneeling next to Hal Jordan on the bottom row. Elongated Man, Firestorm, Superman, Batman, Aquaman and the Red Tornado stand across the back row.

There are grander displays of my grandpa up here. A statue, sitting right next to the door, showing him winking and waving to invisible passers-by. It greets you on the way into the Trophy Room, and salutes you when you leave. It's all very uplifting

But I like this one, this picture of him with the so-called Old League. It's not just Barry Allen On His Own. It's Barry Allen With His Partners.

Saving the world.

Even with everything that's happened. Even given what they did to Dr. Light—who probably had it coming—it's still an impressive bunch of people. Legends, in their ways.

"Grandpa," I say quietly. The faces of the Old League smile back at me. "I'm proud of you."

I run my fingertips over the cold glass, leaving trails of condensation behind.

"I hope you're proud of me."

* * *

_Paradise Island._

_Wonder Girl and Ares, the God of War._

_Warriors._

"Cassandra."

"Ares?"

"Who else." It's not a question.

"Since when do you speak in riddles?"

"When it suits my purpose."

"Fair enough. What do you want?"

"You've done well," he says in mock satisfaction. "You are fast becoming that which you have aspired to for so long."

"I'm not like you," she says, hoping that she's just dodged a bullet.

"No," the god of war responds tersely. "You are something **more**. You have great power, and great anger. And yet you hesitate to use these gifts."

"I'm not like you," Cassandra replies pointedly. "I'm not evil."

"Good and evil are simply words, Cassandra. You can become the greatest warrior your world has ever seen. Why do you hold yourself back? What do you fear by using your talents? The destruction of your world, or something more…personal?"

Silence. Ares continues. Cassandra takes interest in the floor and lets his words echo through her head.

"You…**care** for someone, yes?"

"Yes," she replies. It's barely a whisper.

"The clone."

"He's not a clone. He's **better** than that."

"You fear you will destroy him, or his regard for you will somehow lessen if you show the true measure of your power? Your compassion is your weakness. One your enemies will not share."

"You're wrong."

"Possibly. I've been wrong before," Ares says tersely. "You trust me at your discretion, of course."

Silence. Cassandra ponders.

"You know something. Don't you?"

"I know many things."

"About **my** world. What's going on right now. What's going to happen to us?"

"Darkness is coming," Ares says quietly. "When it does, you must learn to work through it."

"Tell me everything," Cassandra implores. "I need to know."

"You will. In good time."

"Come on!"

"No," Ares says grimly. "One should never know too much about their own future. You may regret it."

"That's it? That's all I get?"

"For now. In time you will learn more—about your power and about yourself. Then you will be invincible. Remember this…and **use** it."

* * *

_The LexCorp Tower._

_Lex Luthor._

_Mastermind._

"It appears your stratagem has **failed**, Luthor."

"It appears **you've** lost none of your candor."

"My programming permits me such latitudes."

"They broke the mold when they made you, didn't they?" Luthor allows himself a tight smile.

"The failure of Project Superboy notwithstanding, you accomplished at least **one** objective. Checkmate and the Brother Eye satellite are no longer a concern."

"Yes," Luthor replies mildly. "The best way to arrange matters is to create a win-win situation. You know that better than most."

"Indeed. And the Batman?"

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about him," Luthor says dismissively. "Remnants of a satellite aren't hard to find, if you're looking in the right place. I imagine once the League finds out what happened, their disintegration will only accelerate."

"Agreed."

"I take it your transfer went well," Luthor remarks, his eyes narrowing in scrutiny. "It seems you've successfuly shed those organics you spoke of."

"Yes," the cold mechanical voice offers. "I shall miss my organic form, I think. But for our purposes, this shell of armored steel will serve me better."

"Then, **Brainiac**…shall we get to work?"

* * *

"None of you understand. **I'm** not locked up in here  
with **you**. **You're** locked up in here with **me**."  
-Rorschach, _Watchmen_. 


	12. Summary

Author's Note: Okay, so I considered Chapter 11 to be the end of this story and continue the overarching plot in another section (which section, though, was a mind-boggler; DC Superheroes, Superman, Teen Titans...hard to pick one, you ask me). So consider this chapter a summary of Earth-side events in the recent DC Universe, as well as a perhaps-needless-on-my-part meshing of events in my own stories that deal with the pending _Infinite Crisis_ in some way or another.

If that makes any sense. Enjoy;), and look for my next story (working title: "Intelligence") around the comics section soon).

* * *

It began with a man. A bug. 

Ted Kord, known in some circles as the Blue Beetle, is—or was—the second man to carry the title. His progenitor, Dan Garrett, was the original Beetle and Kord inherited the mantle some years ago.

Kord spent years of B-list status on the roll calls of various incarnations of the Justice League—most of them financed by Maxwell Lord's wealth. Many wondered why a so-called newcomer like Kord would join one of Lord's teams, let alone what he hoped to accomplish on such a team. Kord served alongside noted heroes such as the Martian Manhunter and the Batman before the team's dissolution.

Despite his obvious lack of metahumans skills, Kord possessed an IQ unmatched but by few people, most of them Justice League members themselves. Kord used his intellectual gifts to compensate in battles he could not win. As such, he was considered indispensable; inventive on-the-fly. And yet he still lacked the respect afforded to other team-mates.

No one ever thought much of Theodore Kord.

Months ago, Kord began uncovering evidence leading to Maxwell Lord's revamped Checkmate organization. Lord had siphoned money from Kord Omniversal into in an attempt to fund what he called "the OMAC Project": Lord's own personal fleet of soldiers, endowed with an energy field which rendered them all but invincible.

Kord also discovered that a Checkmate computer contained the secret identities, weaknesses, and homes of nearly every metahuman in the world. This knowledge was his alone, until Lord himself appeared.

To cover his tracks, or perhaps to increase his ranks and finally reveal his plans, Lord attempted to recruit his once-friend, the Blue Beetle. Perhaps, Lord reasoned, with an ally such as the Blue Beetle—an avowed hero but one with no superpowers to speak of—he could achieve a psychological victory over the Justice League. As if to say 'I've recruited one of your own; how does that make you feel?'

Kord refused to join Checkmate's anti-metahuman agenda. Maxwell Lord shot and killed him. Kord was the only one with the knowledge of Lord's files on the metahumans; Batman, the system's creator, had deleted the files. Maxwell Lord was left relatively empty-handed, though he still retained control of the OMACS, or One Man Army Corps.

As a result of Kord's death, Checkmate's plans remained relatively clandestine. Only recently has word of Kord's murder begun to spread through the superhuman community. Kord's death, as well as what he learned from Checkmate's computers, impacted not only the heroes of the world, but particularly Lex Luthor's reformed Secret Society of Supervillains—led by the core group of Luthor, Deathstroke the Terminator, the Calculator, Dr. Psycho, Talia Head, and Black Adam.

Luthor, as luck would have it, was a primary party responsible for Lord's installation as the new Black King. He felt Kord's death was a considerable setback for his plans—too vulgar a display of intentions before the Society could be sure they were safe from retaliation.

Several months after Kord's death, amid a war of his own involving the Teen Titans (and to a lesser extent, the Justice League and a group called the Secret Six) Luthor sent Black Adam, Deathstroke the Terminator and Zoom—all members of his Society—to kill Maxwell Lord, disassemble Checkmate, and use the remnants of Lord's empire for spare parts.

Because Maxwell Lord was never much a brain-trust, he was never much of a concern. His death would not throw the universe out of alignment and Luthor's true intentions could carry on, if altered slightly. Lord knew that, sooner or later, Luthor was going to call in his marker. And when the once-President of the United States did, Lord was caught completely by surprise and summarily executed in the fashion with which he murdered Ted Kord.

Black Adam, the ruler of Khandaq and Luthor's strong-man in the Society, disposed of Maxwell Lord's body in the English Channel.

And the upper echelons of the Society went about carrying on their own missions. Marking time until the stars aligned correctly, and their hammer could fall swiftly and without retaliation.

Luthor went on to control Superboy, the youthful clone of Superman and coordinate the destruction of Checkmate's Brother Eye satellite and a less successful attack on the Justice League Watchtower.

Zoom had a war to fight in Keystone City, with the Flash and Captain Cold's Rogues.

Deathstroke went into the criminal underground and began working heroes such as Green Arrow, Batgirl, and Nightwing against miscellaneous foes.

Black Adam returned to his home of Khandaq, to fend off an attack by the Spectre and a new Eclipso inhabiting the body of Jean Loring.

Talia Head went hunting the villain known as Hush and his counterpart Prometheus, custodian of a type of key that granted access to a place called the Ghost Zone. Head's reasons behind finding Prometheus remain unknown.

Even more curious, perhaps, are Talia's recent acquisitions of HIVE shock-troops and the inheritance of the League of Assassins' business properties, formerly headed up by the now-dead Ra's al Ghul.

A HIVE heli-carrier was recently spotted over the English Channel, apparently dredging the lowest points. As if searching for something…

It began with a man--a bug. And it continues.


End file.
